She was already awake when he woke the next morning, had already washed the sweat and dirt from her skin and hair in the creek and fixed a small breakfast of dried fruit and the remainder of last nights dinner. Every muscle in her body ached, and the pain in her ribs was too sharp for her to brush off as just mild strain on a healing wound, it was the kind of ache that told her she had pushed herself way too hard. There were reasons why it was not advisable for someone with cracked ribs to wield an axe and destroy a hundred year old oak using nothing but muscle and temper.
The need to move was rising in her again but it wasn't the same drive that had pushed them both past the point of endurance the previous day. Truthfully, she wasn't sure she had another day like that in her. She wasn't sure that he did either. He had given her everything she needed, open ground, space to manoeuvre and a way to expend the self-destructive energy that raged within her without turning it on herself. She really couldn't fault Clint, nobody else would have had the first idea how to relate to her in a situation like this.
They hiked at a steady pace, threading between thickets of trees and pushing through undergrowth, alternating between companionable silence and Barton's comments on the wildlife and plants that they passed. For the first time she realised just how much he knew about the landscape and came to appreciate the respect that he seemed to have for the forest around them. She let him tell her about hunting and living off the land, about the history of the mountains and share stories of the times that he had spent there as a boy, and as long as he talked she could feel the tension easing from her tired muscles.
As the day wore on the physical need to keep moving clashed with storms of emotion that swept through her without warning. To her frustration, Natasha found herself swinging between explosive anger, tearfulness and fear that almost crippled her. He gave her space when she needed it, didn't take offence when she flinched away from his touch, staring at him with open hostility, and held her while she broke down. She couldn't stay in his arms though, no matter how much she appreciated the attempts to soothe her, she couldn't stand the touch of his skin against hers when she was a powder keg of volatile emotions. She just couldn't bear the thought of hurting him if her restraint slipped.
At some point in the late afternoon, as they edged down one of the more rocky slopes that they had encountered, chattering about the weather and the wildlife, safe topics that couldn't stir up the memories that she was trying to avoid, something happened that brought the relative peace of the day crashing down around them. She had no idea how it happened, possibly because she was more focussed on the particularly funny anecdote he was sharing about a childhood hunting trip than watching where she stepped, but she stumbled and, acting on instinct, Clint reached out to steady her before she could fall.
The second his hands closed around her upper arms panic reared up in her, taking her back to that basement room and the rough hands and stale breath of her captors against her skin. She froze, heartbeat spiking, cold fear spreading through her chest. Cruel hands forcing her down, holding her in place. Stale breath, laced with whiskey and nicotine. The cold edge of a knife blade sliding into her skin, drawing blood. A heavy backhand blow to the face. Natasha tensed, tasted blood, and reacted. With no recognition of her surroundings she lashed out, grabbing her attacker and wrenching his arm around before throwing him over her shoulder. He landed with a pained grunt on the stony ground below her and she kicked out with her foot, her boot crashing into his ribs with a satisfying thud. Pain flared in her ribs, forcing her to bend, turn, and protect her injured side as she adopted a defensive stance and reached for the knife that she usually carried at her waist and finding nothing but empty air. That was when she heard his voice.
"'Tasha!" Familiar. Trusted. Partner ... Clint. Snapping back to the present, she saw her partner lying flat on his back before her, hands raised to ward off any further attack but making no attempt to move out of her path. Instinctively, he seemed to know that responding or making any outward sign of defending himself could tip her over the edge and release the violence that she had kept so tightly leashed throughout the day. "It's just me Natasha," he exclaimed breathlessly. He stared up at her, waiting for a sign of what she might do next, only speaking again when she made no attempt to continue the assault. His voice was filled with an understanding that she didn't deserve. "You okay?"
Natasha licked her lips and tasted blood again, realising that she had bit her own lip during her flashback. Typical Clint, more concerned about her when he was the one who had just been thrown to the ground and run the risk of her trying to kill him. Events began to make sense to her, she had slipped and he had caught her. She'd repaid that kindness by attacking him, again. "I'm okay," she replied, hating how shaky her voice sounded. "I don't know what happened there. I..." Her head spun crazily, leaving her feeling dizzy and disoriented.
He was on his feet in a second, encouraging her to move toward a larger rock and sit down with her head down until the moment passed. He didn't touch her, although she noticed that he stayed close enough to catch her if she passed out.
"It was a flashback wasn't it?" he asked quietly. Natasha flinched slightly, she wanted to deny it, hide the weakness, despite his soft tone and the understanding that she saw in his iron-grey gaze. He had carried her out of that room, he had seen her condition, helped her to dress and walk out of that building on her own two feet when she could barely find the strength to stand. He had climbed into the shower with her back at the apartment when she had broken down. Of course he knew what had happened to her, Clint was a perceptive man, skilled at reading people and their secrets, how could he have seen her in recent days and not know? He was the one who was painstakingly trying to put her back together, she owed him the truth. She nodded silently.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It just seemed so real..." she shook herself, trying to find the words that could explain what had happened. "I lost myself for a moment, lost my bearings, and when you grabbed me I..."
"It's okay," he told her, crouching down so that he could meet her gaze. Sincerity. Trust. He didn't hate her for her erratic behaviour or the fact that she was shattering apart, unable to voice her fears or relive her horrors for fear that she wouldn't ever be able to hold her head up again. "It's okay."
Forcing down the dread that surged through her veins in place of her blood, she leaned toward him. Instantly he returned the gesture, resting his forehead against her own in a way that was both comforting and familiar. His eyes slipped closed and he breathed deeply, Natasha found herself echoing his gesture. They were two sides of the same coin she and Clint, different and yet exactly the same, faces indelibly etched into the metal for better or worse. In some ways they were almost exact opposites, fire and ice and yet in others they were more alike than most people realised; flawed, highly trained and deadly. They were the perfect counterpoint to one another, a balancing of skill and temperament that came along so rarely in their line of work. Every day she was thankful for him, for the balance he brought to her life.
How long they sat there, she didn't know, but as if by unspoken agreement they both rose to their feet and continued down the trail, carefully not touching one another once he had finished helping her to her feet. This time he led the way, seeming to have a destination in mind as he picked his way along the trail and turned toward the west. She could tell by the way he moved that he was favouring one side slightly and wondered whether that was just one more injury that she had inflicted upon her partner or if it was just the strain of recent days.
That night they slept under the stars, bed rolls unfurled at the edge of yet another picturesque clearing. While she busied herself with collecting kindling for a fire, he took himself off into the trees, returning a short while later with another couple of rabbits and a collection of wild herbs that he had managed to find. They both took the time to bathe away the exertions of the day beneath the waterfall that bordered the camp, while he fixed a stew that bubbled over the fire. Huddling close to the heat of the small camp fire, she ate everything he offered her, surprised that she had any appetite at all after the events of the afternoon.
She was half asleep before she finished the coffee that he made for her, already tucked up in her bed to ward off the cool night air, aware of his presence nearby while he sang soft folk songs by the fireside. She'd learned a long time ago and half the world away that Clint was a surprisingly good singer. Lulled by the warmth of the fire and the sound of his voice, she slept.
After Natasha fell asleep, Barton spent a while staring up at the stars. He had always felt at home in the wild, just as he had always felt comfortable in the high places that most people wouldn't even contemplate climbing to, he had always liked his space and the feeling of freedom that those places gave him. It seemed that being out in the open was working for Natasha too. Since they had left the cabin the previous morning she had been eating and sleeping better, while the afternoons events suggested that the memories were surfacing. Only his quick reflexes had saved him from bruised or broken ribs when she had attacked him but the blow had been worth it to force an admission that she wasn't really okay past her lips. Not that she'd actually said those exact words, he doubted Natasha Romanoff would ever utter those words to another human being, but she had told him in her own way. That was enough for him.